


The Measure of My Wrath

by tabru



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Elves living for wine and drama, F/M, Family Drama, Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:01:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25717729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tabru/pseuds/tabru
Summary: The tale of the War of Wrath and the End of the First Age, as told from the point of view of the Elves (and Half-elves) who lived through it.Chapter One: The last remaining refugees of Sirion arrive on Balar, and they couldn't be more thrilled to rebuild their lives (again). Galadriel and Gil-galad discuss the best way to avoid annihilation, and decide instead to embrace it. Elrond and Elros adjust to their new lives with Maglor and Maedhros, and are only mildly traumatized.
Relationships: Amroth & Thranduil (Tolkien), Celeborn/Galadriel | Artanis, Elrond Peredhel & Elros Tar-Minyatur, Elrond Peredhel & Maglor | Makalaurë, Ereinion Gil-galad & Galadriel | Artanis
Comments: 5
Kudos: 30





	The Measure of My Wrath

_The Bay of Balar_  
_The 540th Year of the First Age_

Amroth rested his head on his arms, watching Sirion grow ever smaller as the white ship of the Falathrim took him across the dark grey waters of the bay. In his first forty years of life, he’d already lost two homes. The first was Doriath; he’d only been a small boy the night that great kingdom had fallen, but he could still remember every terrifying moment of it. He could remember the screams, and the smell of fire and blood. He could remember the Fëanorians, tall and dark and fierce as they laid waste to his home. He could remember his father’s hand in his, pulling him along beside him as they searched for his grandparents. They never found them. But they did find Amroth’s mother, and Amroth’s uncle and cousin, and the five of them had flown from that place in the dead of night, never to return.

His second home had been Sirion. For a while it had been a merry, safe place. But then the Fëanorians had returned, and they’d brought the screaming, and the fire, and the blood again. Amroth had fought that night, though his parents had tried to convince him to hide. He’d watched his sword—his own sword—slide deep into the throat of a Fëanorian, and he’d watched the life leave that Elf’s eyes. The Elf had fallen, twitching and gurgling, as Amroth stood motionless above him. It had been a strange thing to see, and he could hardly believe he’d done it. He’d _seen_ himself do it, but two years later, it still didn’t seem quite real.

The ship bounced against the waves as they drew further away from shore, Sirion nothing more than a long, dark line against the eastern horizon. Amroth wondered bleakly how many other homes he’d have to leave behind.

“Dear boy, you look miserable.”

Amroth turned to see his cousin Thranduil standing behind him, his eyes sharp with concern.

“I’m not,” Amroth said, defensively. “I was merely…speculating.”

“About?” Thranduil asked, moving to stand beside him at the railing.

“About whether we’ll have to leave the Isle of Balar in the same manner we left Doriath and Sirion.”

“Dark thoughts, Elfling,” Thranduil replied, scanning the diminishing horizon.

“I heard your father say the same this morning. He said there were no safe places left in Beleriand.”

Thranduil frowned. “Well, that’s why we’re going to Balar. It’s an island. It’s safe. The last safe place.” Which was his way of saying: _If Balar falls, there is nowhere else to go. So best not to think about that, little cousin._

“But safe for how long?” Amroth pressed.

Thranduil waved his hand dismissively. “You worry too much, beloved Amroth.”

“Can you blame me?”

“No,” Thranduil said after a moment. “But then, I had the luxury of a peaceful childhood. Yours was…” He paused, and looked off towards the swiftly vanishing Sirion. “You’ll have peace on Balar,” he said at last. “I’ll see to that.”

They were silent for a long time. Sirion passed beyond the waves and the dark night shimmered in the waters beneath the ship. After a while, Thranduil turned his head, nodding towards the other passengers. “What do you think of him, eh?”

“Who?” Amroth said, turning. The last of Sirion’s refugees were gathered upon the upper decks of the ship for the short journey to Balar. Two years since the Fall of Sirion, and the final stragglers were at last making the trip across the bay to join what was left of the free people of Beleriand. Most of the passengers were watching the stars in silence. Some were singing soft and low to their children. A few looked as if they were trying to sleep. They all looked anxious.

“Him.” Thranduil said. “This Noldor king. This Ereinion Gil-galad.” He said _Noldor_ as though the word itself was filthy. But Amroth had grown up in Sirion, and there had been many Noldor children there that he had played with, and they had all seemed good and proper Elves.

Amroth looked past the passengers towards the helm. Círdan the Shipwright was sat there, his fingers lightly guiding the wheel. King Gil-galad of the Noldor stood beside him. They were speaking together, but Amroth couldn’t make out what they were saying.

“I don’t know,” Amroth said, shrugging. “He seems nice.”

Thranduil sniffed and turned back to glare down at the dark water. “Ah, you think everyone seems nice. You’d befriend a Dwarf if I weren’t around to knock some sense into you.”

Amroth ignored the jab, and asked instead: “King Gil-galad—you don’t like him?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“What are you saying then?”

“Nothing,” Thranduil said moodily. “Forget it.”

“Now who’s being miserable,” Amroth muttered. He turned to look again at the king. He looked very much like a king should: tall and elegant, with shining silver armor and his long, dark hair bound in gold. He wore a circlet low on his brow, and it was studded with diamonds so bright they looked like stars. He looked worried however. No, Amroth thought, not worried. That wasn’t it.

For the briefest of moments, King Gil-galad glanced at Amroth and then away again, but it was enough time for Amroth to identify the emotion in the king’s storm-grey eyes. He wasn’t worried.

He was sad.

“What do you think they’re talking about?” Amroth asked his cousin.

Thranduil didn’t bother turning around. He continued to stare down at the water. “Probably talking about where to house all of us poor, homeless refugees.” The bitterness in his voice was unmistakable.

“Well,” Amroth said, “at least we know where we’re staying.” Amroth’s parents had gone to Balar the previous year and had settled into a house there. They’d been anxious ever since for their only child to arrive. “You and your father are going to stay with us.”

Thranduil smiled, and some of the bitterness left his voice. “And here I thought you were trying to be rid of me.”

“Never!” Amroth said. He wasn’t sure if Thranduil was sincere or merely jesting, but he was horrified that his cousin would ever suggest such a thing. “Why would you say that? You are dearer to me than anything. Of course you will stay with me. Of course!”

“I’m teasing,” Thranduil said, but there was relief in his eyes. “As though you would ever want to be rid of me!” He tossed his long, silvery hair over his shoulder in an exaggerated flourish. “Your life would be dreadfully dull otherwise, my little cousin.”

Amroth rolled his eyes, but allowed himself to relax a bit. It felt almost normal, the jesting, the teasing. He could almost forget they were refugees. He could almost forget Doriath and Sirion, and the screaming, and the fire, and…

He looked down at the dark water and saw the dying Fëanorian staring back up at him. He blinked and the image was gone. He saw only his own startled, pale reflection. He shuddered and pressed himself against his cousin. “Cold out here,” he lied.

“Yes,” Thranduil said quietly, and wrapped an arm around Amroth’s shoulders, pulling him closer. “Yes, it is.”

***

_The Isle of Balar_

Galadriel had been one of the first refugees to leave Sirion after its fall—she knew a lost cause when she saw one—and had spent the past two years on Balar…waiting. For something. Anything. Some sign that the people of Beleriand had not been utterly abandoned by the West. Some sign that Elwing had truly escaped as some said she had. A sign that Eärendil was still alive. But as the days turned into weeks and the weeks turned into _two years_ she began to wonder if they weren’t all truly forsaken.

“That will be the last of them, I believe,” Celeborn said. She followed his gaze out across the starlit waters of the bay and saw a small, white ship sailing into port.

“Yes,” Galadriel said, wrapping an arm around her husband’s. “Gil-galad went to collect the last of the refugees himself. He said he wanted to make sure no one got left behind.”

“He went to look for them, didn’t he?” Celeborn asked softly. He kept his gaze fixed and steady on the harbor, his voice perfectly even. If Galadriel hadn’t been married to him, she might never have known the pain that lay beneath his words. But she was married to him, and she did know. It was a pain they both shared.

“I imagine so,” she said.

“It’s hopeless,” Celeborn said. “They’re lost.”

For a year after Sirion fell, Celeborn had remained there, searching for the twin sons of Eärendil. Many had searched with him. But they never found the boys.

“They’re either with Maedhros or they’re…” Celeborn couldn’t bring himself to say it. He shook his head. “I’m not sure which is worse.”

“You know which is worse,” Galadriel chided lightly. “And if they _are_ with Maedhros, then that means they’re with Maglor, too, and I always found him to be one of the more reasonable members of That Side of the Family. He has his father’s looks, but his mother’s wisdom.”

“Little good it did him,” Celeborn said. “I saw him at Sirion. And at Doriath. He didn’t look very wise then.”

Galadriel sighed. “He’s wise enough to not harm the children, if indeed he has them. So is Maedhros, for that matter.”

“Either way, it’s as I said: they’re lost to us.”

They watched in silence as the white ship docked itself in the harbor, the Falathrim helping to disembark its passengers. Despite herself, Galadriel tried to spy a pair of Half-elven boys in the crowd of new arrivals, and only succeeded in becoming disappointed.

“There’s Amdír’s boy, I think,” Celeborn said, pointing out the young Sinda as he walked off the ship. “He’ll be happy to see him safe on Balar at last.”

Círdan and Gil-galad were the last to disembark. Círdan jumped from the rail to the dock and went to help his people secure the ship. Gil-galad walked down the plank instead, slowly, his head bowed and his shoulders stooped, and set off on foot to the palace that sat on a hill looking out over the bay.

“I’ll go and see to the new arrivals,” Celeborn said. “They look a bit lost. Perhaps you should see to the king.”

“Yes,” she agreed softly. “He looks a bit lost, as well.”

***

_Amon Ereb, East Beleriand_

Elrond was only eight years old, but that didn’t mean he didn’t know things. He knew plenty of things. In fact, he was quite convinced he knew more than most his age. He certainly knew more than Elros, who only cared about sword fights and horses and never paid any attention to Maglor when he read to them.

Sometimes Elrond made lists of the things he knew and the things he didn’t know, just to keep a proper accounting of it all. His most current list read thusly:

**THINGS I KNOW**

1\. The Names of Everyone on Amon Ereb  
2\. How to speak Good Quenya and Good Sindarin  
3\. Manners!  
4\. How to Be Quiet when Adults are speaking  
5\. The names of All the Birds and Beasts and Trees  
6\. Most of the names of Fish  
7\. Most of the names of Bugs  
8\. How to Feed the Chickens (and not get Pecked)  
9\. How to run up the Hill without getting tired  
10\. How Old I Am (8!)  
11\. How to Play Nice with Elros  
12\. How to Write the Tengwar  
13\. How to Play the Harp  
14\. How to Clean Up

**THINGS I DON’T KNOW**

1\. How to Ride a Horse by myself  
2\. How to Speak Dwarf  
3\. How to roll down the Hill and not get dizzy  
4\. How to Bake Biscuits  
5\. How to Breathe Underwater  
6\. How to Not Get Distracted  
7\. Where Flour comes from  
8\. How old Maglor and Maedhros are (But they are Very Old I think!)  
9\. How to Draw Good (Elros is a Good Draw-er, so he does it for me when I need a drawing)  
10\. Maths

But there were other things he knew and didn’t know that he never wrote down. He didn’t write these things because he didn’t like to think about them much. They were the Bad Things that had happened before he and Elros came to Amon Ereb. Elros didn’t think about them either. And they didn’t talk about them. Maglor and Maedhros didn’t talk about them. No one talked about them.

But sometimes, when he was very tired, Elrond’s mind would think about them anyway. He would think about how he used to have a mother. He would think about her and miss her and it hurt. So he stopped thinking about her. And then he began to forget her. He forgot her face and her voice and what she smelled like and how she used to pick him up and hug him.

If Elrond had ever had a father, he didn’t know. And that hurt, too, but in a different way.

Elrond used to live by the ocean, but he didn’t anymore and he didn’t know why. And he was too afraid to ask about it. His ocean home had had a name, but he’d forgotten that, too.

And then there were the Really Bad Things. The things he never thought of ever, and only remembered while sleeping, and they would scare him awake and he would cry and cry until Elros woke up. Then Elros would climb into his bed and tell him a funny story and he would go back to sleep and think about the funny story instead.

Sometimes it was Elros who dreamed about the Really Bad Things. He would shout things in his sleep and Elrond would get scared and hug him until he went quiet again. That used to happen a lot when they were seven, but now that they were eight and almost grown up, it happened less.

But on this night, with dark clouds rolling down from the North, and a wicked storm flickering against the distant horizon, Elrond dreamed. He dreamed he was at his ocean home, but the ocean was red and on fire. He ran away from the ocean and towards the marshes. The marshes were good for hiding games, but this was no game Elrond was playing. He ducked down in the thick reeds and waited, his heart pounding, his ears filled with the sounds of people screaming. And then he saw the White Stag. Beautiful and strong, it stood before him in the marsh. The stag looked at him. Elrond looked back at the stag. “Stay quiet,” it told him. “Stay hidden.”

And then an arrow pierced the stag and he fell to the ground, dead and bloodied, and Elrond screamed and screamed and screamed until he felt someone grab him—

“Elrond! Wake up!”

Elrond’s eyes flew open, and he saw the familiar stone ceiling of his bedroom above him. Elros was leaning over him, shaking him.

“It’s all right!” Elros said. “You were having a bad dream again.”

Elrond stared at him, the last horrible tendrils of the nightmare fading from his mind. He took in a shaky breath and realized there were tears on his cheeks. He wiped at them angrily. Fresh tears quickly replaced them.

Elros climbed onto his bed and laid down beside him. “I’m glad you’re awake,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper. “I have a funny idea. Do you wanna hear it?”

Elrond nodded, sniffling.

“I was thinking about birds,” Elros said. “And how it’s not fair that they get to have all the fun. They get to fly around everywhere, and we have to stay here, and it’s so boring.”

“Maglor says it’s safe here,” Elrond said in a small voice.

“Safe is boring!” Elros said. “But then I had an idea. What if we could fly, too?”

“But,” Elrond’s tired, troubled mind was already working out the logistics of what his brother had said. “But we can’t. We don’t have any wings.”

“We could make wings!”

“How?”

Elros shrugged. “I’ll start collecting all the feathers from the chicken coops and pillows and anywhere else I can find some. And then I’ll attach them to my own arms. I’ve been watching birds lately, you know, how they fly and that sort of thing, and it seems really simple. All you need is some feathers and then flap your arms really fast—like this!” He jumped up onto his knees and bounced about on the bed, flapping his arms as fast as he could.

“That’s stupid,” Elrond said, but he managed a small laugh and wiped the last of his tears from his eyes. “And you’ll get in trouble if you take all the feathers out of everyone’s pillows.”

Elros just grinned. “Yeah. But it’d be so fun!” He laid down again, shut his eyes, and snuggled closer to his twin. “Just think about it.”

Elrond watched Elros fall asleep beside him, still grinning. And this was it—the Most Important Thing that Elrond knew, the thing he didn’t need to ever write down because it was impossible to forget: That he loved Elros more than he loved anything in the whole world, and that Elros loved him, and that they would be together forever and ever.

Elrond smiled and shut his eyes. He dreamed of flying.

***

_The Isle of Balar_

“We’ve lost, haven’t we?”

Galadriel accepted the wineglass, her long fingers wrapping around the delicate stem. How easily she could have snapped it if she wanted. It often struck her as cruel that the most precious things were always the most fragile.

“There is still hope,” she answered, and took a sip of the wine.

“Beleriand is overrun,” Gil-galad said, shaking his head. “And here we are, cowering, our backs to the Sea. And if you think for a moment that Morgoth will simply _let us be_ then you are terribly mistaken.”

“We still have time,” Galadriel said.

“Time for what?” Gil-galad asked. He drained his own wineglass and poured himself another. “Time to wait for our Doom to arrive?”

Galadriel didn’t have a good answer to that, not one he’d want to hear, at least. She sighed. Finrod would have known what to say.

“There are…two options,” she said carefully.

They were in the king’s council chambers, one of the larger rooms of the palace, with wide, sea-facing windows and an open balcony that looked out over the harbor. Gil-galad sat down upon the balcony railing and stared expectantly at Galadriel. “Two, you say?”

“They are not _good_ options, of course.”

“Of course,” the king repeated, and took a large swig of his wine. He waved a hand for her to continue.

“We can either use this time to prepare for the eventual invasion—shore up our defenses, devote our time and resources to weapons-making and martial training—”

“—So that we can all die in one final blaze of glory?” Gil-galad laughed mirthlessly. “Shame no one would be around to tell the tale once Morgoth destroys us; it would make for a magnificent bard’s song.”

“Or,” Galadriel continued, “we build as many ships as we can.”

Gil-galad raised an elegant dark eyebrow. “Ships? And where exactly would we be sailing them? There’s nowhere left to go.”

Galadriel met his gaze steadily. Both of the king’s eyebrows shot up towards his hairline.

“You can’t be serious.”

“As a last resort only.”

“My dear lady,” the king said. “Sailing West is suicide. Even if we managed to reach Aman—if!—the Valar would kill us the instant we set foot upon their shores.”

“I did say that these were not good options,” Galadriel said. “But they are the only ones left to us. Either we flee or we fight.”

“Either choice leads to destruction.” Gil-galad squeezed his eyes shut. “How did I allow this to happen?”

“This is not your fault.”

“Sirion was my fault.”

Galadriel moved to sit beside him on the balcony. “There was nothing you could have done to stop what happened there.”

Gil-galad downed the rest of his wine and stared miserably into the empty glass. “Do you know…when Eärendil left, he knew he would not return. He knew he’d die in the attempt to reach Valinor. He went anyway.” Gil-galad shook his head. “I’m not sure if he was very brave or very foolish. In return for his sacrifice, he asked only one thing of me: that I look after his family while he was away. He begged me, and I told him I would. I _swore_ to him I would. And now...look how well I kept my promise.” He went to take another drink, remembered his glass was empty, and then stood to get more wine. “Elwing is…gone, her children are missing…I failed them. I failed them all.”

“They are gone, that is true,” Galadriel said. “But blaming yourself will not bring them back. The past is done and cannot be altered.” She looked out across the dark water of the harbor. On clear days, the farsighted Elves of Balar could see all the way to Sirion. “You must look to the future now. You are the King of the Noldor, the last free king of Beleriand, and your people need you.”

Gil-galad went to drink from his newly refilled wineglass, but instead set it down with a sigh. “Two options, you say. Flee or fight.”

“Well,” Galadriel said. “We could always do nothing.”

Gil-galad allowed himself a small smile. He drained his wineglass in one. “You know—and perhaps this is the wine talking—I’ve always preferred a good fight.”

Galadriel returned his smile. “So have I.”

***

_Amon Ereb, East Beleriand_

Elrond carefully picked the blackberries from the basket and placed them, one by one, onto the blanket. “One for Elros,” he said. “One for Maglor. One for me. One for Elros. One for Maglor. One for me…”

Three little piles of berries began to slowly build up until there was only one berry left in the basket. Elrond decided the last one should go to Maglor since he was the biggest. Then he sat back, admired his work, and waited patiently.

Waiting patiently was something he had learned to do recently, and he thought absently that he should remember to add that to the THINGS I KNOW list. However, as he had yet to learn how not to become distracted, his mind wandered easily away from the picnic on the grassy hill towards the wide plain of the Estolad beyond. There were deer grazing in the tall grass, and rabbits hopping between them. The summer sun was hot above him and he yawned in the midday heat, wondering drowsily what it must be like to be a deer or a rabbit. It must be fun, nothing to do all day but run amidst the tall grasses and the flowers…and the streams…free and fast…and warm…

A fat bumblebee buzzed loudly in his ear, and he jerked awake, realizing that he’d fallen asleep for a moment. He shook the sleepy fog from his head and turned his attention back to the little picnic. The blackberries were plump and shining in the sunlight and he wanted to be good and wait for Elros and Maglor, but he also wanted to eat one so badly…

His stomach grumbled. “Stop that,” he muttered to his hungry belly. It grumbled back at him in annoyance. He yawned again, and rubbed his face.

Finally, a thousand million years later, he spied Maglor and Elros heading out of the Big House and down the lawn towards him. Maglor was bearing a pot of tea while Elros carried a lyre. Elrond sat up straight and smiled expectantly as Maglor and Elros at last joined him at the blanket.

“Well done, Elrond,” Maglor said. “Quite a nice picnic you’ve made for us.”

“This is your spot,” Elrond said to him, pointing to the pile with one extra berry.

“Thank you, Elrond,” Maglor said as he knelt upon the ground. He laid the steaming pot of tea in the center of the blanket and set about pouring it out into little clay cups.

Elros had already eaten most of his berries by the time Maglor had finished handing them their tea.

“Now,” Maglor said, picking up the lyre from where Elros had unceremoniously discarded it in the grass. “What song would you like today?”

“I like the one about the Moon and the Sun!” Elrond said, bouncing on his knees.

“You _always_ want that one,” Elros said, his mouth full of berries. “Play an exciting one! One with a dragon!”

Elrond frowned. He didn’t like the dragon ones very much. It wasn’t that he was _afraid_ of dragons. Not exactly, anyway. He just didn’t like to think about them.

Maglor played a few notes upon the lyre, his face contemplative. “How about a song of the Sea? When I traveled across the Sea many years ago, I saw many exciting things.”

“Scary things?” Elrond asked, picking nervously at his pile of berries.

Maglor regarded him for a long moment, his smile kind, but sad. “No,” he said at last. “Nothing scary.”

“I like the Sea,” Elros said, wiping his purple fingers on the blanket. “I used to play in it. Remember, Elrond, we used to…” He looked at Elrond and trailed off. “Never mind.”

“A Sea Song, then,” Maglor said, and began to play upon the lyre.

As it turned out, it wasn’t a scary song at all; Maglor sang a song of the wondrous animals that swam in the depths of the ocean, of huge fish, of Ulmo and Ossë and Uinen. As he sang, Elrond looked back out across the Estolad and imagined that the great plain was in fact a vast sea, and that the deer that frolicked there were in fact dolphins jumping among the foam.

After a while, Elrond climbed into Maglor’s lap. It wasn’t anything he’d planned to do, and he hadn’t really given much thought to it. He simply did it because he wanted to. For the briefest of moments, Maglor’s song faltered and his fingers upon the strings of the lyre paused. But then he continued, and Elrond settled contentedly against the dark haired Elf.

It was a strange thing to feel safe, and Elrond realized suddenly that he _hadn’t_ felt safe, not in a long time, not since the Bad Night in the marshes. And yet here, resting against Maglor, Elros lying half asleep on the blanket beside them, here he felt safe. Safety, he realized, wasn’t a place. Places could be destroyed; he’d seen that firsthand. No, not a place.

Safety was a moment.


End file.
